


Ring, Ring

by Anemoi, saltstreets



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Gary goes to Valencia, M/M, Phone Sex, that's the order of things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-05
Updated: 2015-12-05
Packaged: 2018-05-05 01:33:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5355986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anemoi/pseuds/Anemoi, https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltstreets/pseuds/saltstreets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three months after Gary arrives at Valencia and Carra’s rung him up him a good handful of times, mostly to complain about the stupid promotional things he has to do for Sky or the latest (according to him) outrageous refereeing decision handed to United.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ring, Ring

**Author's Note:**

> carraville started out as our latest, shiniest crackship and now it's danger close to unironically being the Best Ship in the Business. 
> 
> be aware that this fic began life as a [conversation](http://saltstreets.livejournal.com/2031.html) a few hours ago and then was written all in a single, weird blur. But you know, we edited it for grammar so there's that.

 

 

Three months after Gary arrives at Valencia and Carra’s rung him up him a good handful of times, mostly to complain about the stupid promotional things he has to do for Sky or the latest (according to him) outrageous refereeing decision handed to United. The calls seem to have no pattern to them, no routine, only that Carra is usually the one doing the calling and they usually end with a row that’s almost entirely friendly by this point. So when Gary sees _Jamie Carragher_ flashing on the screen of his mobile, he picks it up without preamble.

“Hello,” Carra says, and then after a beat, “It’s me.” There’s a cadence to his voice that suggests he’s quoting something, and it takes Gary a second to figure it out.

“Oh, fuck off Carragher,” he says, settling back into the couch comfortably.

Carra just laughs.

“When did you start listening to pop music?” Gary demands. “I thought you were strictly into terrible eighties hair metal.”

“I never,” Carra says, deeply offended. “And for your information I started listening to pop music when my life became a tragedy, fuck you. I’ve been abandoned by my partner in analysis mid-way through the season. You piss off to Spain and I’ve- I’ve been _garfunkeled!_ ”

Gary snorts in spite of himself. “If I didn’t know you better I’d almost take that as a compliment.”

“Yeah well I’m real torn up about it. Console me.”

“What do you even want.” Gary deadpans, refusing to be took in by Carra’s attempts to rile him up.

“Liverpool are playing,” Carra says plaintively, as if Gary doesn’t know. “But these blokes they’ve got doing commentary are absolute shite. Don’t know anything. I can barely pay attention I’m so set off.”

“Truly tragic,” Gary tells him dryly. “What do you want me to do about it? I can write an indignant letter on your behalf, it might get to Sky in a week, will that do?”

“No, I want you to turn on your television and do the commentary for me,” Jamie says, as if it’s the most obvious solution in the world.

Gary splutters. “ _Sorry?_ ”

“C’mon mate,” Carra wheedles. “You do better commentary than any of these other knobs on the telly. And I know you like watching Liverpool, you always get worked up over us.”

“I do not.”

“You do at that.” Gary can hear the shit-eating grin in Carra’s voice. “I’m not forgetting that City match in a hurry. What did you say we were? ‘Scintillating’?”

“Surprised you can even get that many syllables out in the right order,” Gary mutters, annoyed because he’s already reaching for the television remote in spite of himself and fumbling through channels to the fuzzy import of Sky that gets piped over to Spain.

“Yeah well, I’m full of surprises,” Carra says blithely, but with an edge of _something_ in his voice that for some reason prickles the back of Gary’s neck. He represses a shiver.

“Got the match on yet?”

“I haven’t even agreed to your idiotic demands yet, slow down,” Gary says irritably.

Carra snickers. “No, but I can hear the television on your end, you twat. Don’t lie.”

Gary huffs a little. “Why isn’t Jamie on? Who’s this other bloke?”

“Redders has a thing, somewhere,” Carra says vaguely. “Anyway- Klopp’s playing three up front again.”

Gary snorts. “Is Sturridge injured.” He knows the answer to that one actually. A hamstring twinge, nothing really serious. But he’ll be damned before letting Carragher in on that though.

“No, he’s just being rested.”

“Well it doesn’t look too bad, right now. You lot are pressing high, that’s a good run by Moreno,” Gary says absently. Carra makes a noise of encouragement.

Gary sighs but keeps going, because he’s missed this, actually. Dissecting a team’s performance from a neutral point of view -insofar as he could be neutral with Liverpool in the equation- instead of the constant buzz of hyper-attention involved in watching tapes of Valencia or their rivals’ matches. And also something liberating about the way he can just make all the snide comments that he likes because they’re not on air, his only audience Carra’s surprised and amused laughter in his ear.

 **“-** good pass by Can, he really catches O’Shea on the wrong foot there. I don’t understand why he- Oh! Cracking volley,” Gary says, pleased with the finish despite himself. On screen Lallana’s running out to the corner where he’s immediately swamped by his teammates. Carra isn’t saying anything, which is strange, because Gary would expect him to be screaming his ear off.

“Still there?” Gary asks, puzzled.

Carra makes a sound. Not a triumphant sound but a small involuntary sound, catching Gary’s attention.

“Are- you _touching_ yourself?”

There’s a silence on the other end of the line.

“I can hear you _breathing_ , Carra, are you wanking off to Liverpool?”

“And if I am?” Carra challenges, breathless grin in his voice, “what’re you planning on doing about it?” There’s an unmistakable hitch in his voice that goes unbidden straight to Gary’s dick.

“You might have, y’know, _not_ called me if you were just going to jack off,” Gary says, struggling to keep his voice expressionless.

“No, no,” Carra says, the ghost of a sigh on his tongue. “Wanted to hear you talk about the match. That was still the point, Gary, don’t feel neglected.”

 _That was still the point._ Gary has a sudden, shivering realisation that maybe...maybe Carra isn’t getting off on the match alone. Maybe-

“You’re thinking too much, I can hear it.” Carra teases in a low tone. “You upset about it, Gaz?”

“Just- give me a heads up next time,” Gary manages, voice still level. It all seems so. Normal. Somehow. “You’re leaving me behind here.”

“Oh, but if you joined in who’d be doing the commentary?” Carra says, caught between a moan and a laugh.

Gary scowls, his hand slipping below his waistband nonetheless. “You’re a right selfish prick, Carragher, you know that?”

“Mm.” There’s the sound of movement crackling through the receiver and Gary has a sudden vision of Carra, spread out on his sofa, pants pushed down around his hips and a big hand on his cock. He swallows thickly.

“Gary?” Carra says, voice husky.

“Y-yeah?”

“Liverpool’s on the break. Get back to it.”

“You _wanker_.”

“At the moment, yeah.”

Gary has to bite his lip. He probably –definitely- shouldn’t be turned on by that. By any of this. By the thought of Jamie fucking Carragher ringing him up just to rub one out over his commentating a _Liverpool_ match, for god’s sake. There was so much wrong with this scenario, he couldn’t even start to list-

On screen, Firmino gets dispossessed in a particularly brutal fashion and Carra swears. “Ref, jesus.”

“Certainly looked like a foul,” Gary says, slipping into his match commentary voice without thinking about it.

Carra grumbles something about Liverpool never getting decisions and Gary actually laughs. “C’mon Jamie, that’s not exactly true, is it?”

There’s an unmistakable hitch of breath on the other end of the line and Gary’s throat goes dry.

“Hey- say my name again.”

“No,” Gary says, mostly just to be ornery because at this point there’s no use denying that he’s got a hand wrapped loosely around his own dick, gently rolling his thumb over the head of his growing hard-on.

“C’mon Neville, lemme hear you say it.”

“If you can’t be bothered to call me mine why should I?”

“ _Gary,”_ Carra says, and his voice has suddenly dropped low, rough. Playful. “ _Gary_ , talk to me. You love talking so much, just talk to me.”

Shit. Gary doesn’t quite know what to do with that one, just that he’s suddenly much harder in his hand than he had been a second ago.

“What do you want to hear?” he asks, and then adds because fuck it, they’re doing this, aren’t they- “ _Jamie.”_

Carra makes a noise of satisfaction. “Just go on spewing nonsense like you always do on Sky, I don’t care; who’s your man of the match so far?”

“Don’t think you should be calling it nonsense when you’re the one with a hand on your cock, Carra.” Gary says. “Seeing as you did ring me just to get off.”

Carra’s breath stutters and he moans.

“Are you going to come, Jamie?” Gary asks, teasing even as his own breathing is going ragged around the edges. He strokes himself more quickly, twisting his wrist to get a better angle.

“Yeah, fuck- yes, Gary, are you-”

“What do you think.” Gary tries to deadpan, the effect somewhat ruined when he groans quietly, too close too soon.

The sound of Carra’s breath over the line is strangely erotic. Gary can almost feel it against his neck, hot air in puffs, whispering what he wants to do into his ear, hand at the base of Gary’s skull twisting fingers into his hair, tugging -

“Fuck- _Gary,”_ Carra says in a strangled voice and Gary realises he’s been speaking aloud. Carra bites off a choked moan and sighs and Gary knows, then; he can imagine Carra, streaks of come on his lower belly, hand on his spent cock; he can imagine Carra easing himself through the aftermath, and Gary follows him down, coming hard in his trousers like he’s sixteen with no self-control, the sound of Carra’s soft panting still in his ear.

They stay on the line, silent save for heaving breathing for a few moments. A contented haze of satisfaction is blurring Gary’s vision as Liverpool play out the last minutes of the second half, the warm sleepiness stealing over him unmarred by the fact that he’d just had something like phone sex with Jamie fucking Carragher.

The final whistle blows. “Congratulations,” Gary says lazily. “Decent performance all ‘round.”

Carra snorts. “‘Decent’? You just came in your pants, Gary. I’d call it more than decent.”

Gary rolls his eyes. “Had nothing to do with Liverpool, get your head out of your arse.”

The unspoken conclusion hangs heavy between them and Gary doesn’t dare say it. He wants to put things back on track somehow, back to the usual pattern of these phone calls, where Carra will say something outlandish and Gary will scoff at him and they’ll shout a bit and hang up feeling pleased with themselves.

He scrambles for something to say but somehow when he opens his mouth it doesn’t quite come out as planned. He’s too earnest, not joking enough. “Were you serious in that piece you did for the Mail? When you asked John Terry to come to Sky?”

Carra chokes, and cackles for a solid minute before calming down. “Fuck, no Gary; terrible as you are I much prefer you to John Terry.”

“Well I’ve got that going for me at least.”

Carra is silent for a minute. “I wouldn’t be calling John Terry up every other week either, if he’d been the one fucking off to Spain.”

He sounds a little too honest, a little too open, even for someone who’s just come from talking over the phone to a man he supposedly doesn’t get along too famously with. Gary grins, something nudging in his chest that he studiously ignores. “I should hope not.”

He can imagine Carra making a face. “Don’t.”

“What?”

“Don’t make suggestions that I’d call John Terry up to, to. Y’know.”

Gary rolls his eyes. “Fuck’s sake, Jamie, you did just wank off rather enthusiastically with me over the phone, you can call it what it is.”

“Don’t be vulgar, Gary.” Carra says primly, as if the idea of Carra being _prim_ in any sense of the word wasn’t ludicrous beyond belief.

“What’ve you got on for Sunday?” he asks, bringing Gary abruptly back to the real world, where he doesn’t just lie about on the sofa in post-wank bliss without any responsibilities whatsoever. He winces and Carra notices. “Right. Match day.”

“And before that, gotta overhaul the diet plan. Up at the crack of dawn, listing the various merits of different vegetables.”

“Mm,” Carra says. “Fascinating.”

“You’re the one asking.”

“Maybe you ought to look into your own diet plan.” Carra snarks. “I’ve seen photos of you, all that Spanish food, eh Gaz?”

“Fuck off.” Gary says, no heat behind it, and Carra laughs quietly.

“Go to sleep, Gary.” he says, horribly close to affectionate. “I’ll call you next week, yeah?”

“Mhm.” Gary assents, eyes already sliding closed.

“And don’t just fall asleep on the couch, you tit, I can tell you’re about to.”

“Was not.”

He can practically hear Carra rolling his eyes. “Good luck tomorrow. Manc idiot.”

“Scouse bastard.”

He hangs up on Carra snickering over the line and it’s not until he’s brushing his teeth in front of the mirror that he realises Carra’d promised to ring him again, rather than their usual way of leaving things hanging until one of them picked up the phone on a whim. It’s only a small thing but nonetheless Gary bites down at a smile until he gives up and just grins at himself in the mirror, toothpaste at the corner of his mouth and hair in disarray.

 

 


End file.
